


The Winter Emo

by barns_bucky



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Domestic Fluff, M/M, Punk Bucky Barnes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-08
Updated: 2016-02-08
Packaged: 2018-05-19 00:59:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5950225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/barns_bucky/pseuds/barns_bucky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Headcanon: After Nat gives Bucky a taste of 2005-era emo music, he gets hooked. He steals an iPod, then fills it with guitar solos and screeching vocals. He can play the opening to "Welcome to the Black Parade" on the keyboard and he's mastered an absolutely filthy rendition of "Mr. Brightside" that makes Steve turn redder than the stripes on his precious flag. Nat is a proud momma when it comes to her tiny emo son.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Winter Emo

**Author's Note:**

> This story was inspired by [this](http://buchananbuck.co.vu/post/137388866235/headcanon-after-nat-gives-bucky-a-taste-of) ask that I received from bucky-is-bae.

“Hey, Bucky, listen to this."

Grey eyes looked up from where he was currently filling up a word search book, “What?” His gaze drifted to the earbud that Nat held out towards him.

“Listen, I think you’ll like it.”

A full minute passed between them in which he just stared at it.

“C’mon.”

Huffing, he took the earbud from her and tucked it into his ear before going back to his word search and it wasn’t until halfway through the song that he realized he wasn’t even paying attention to his word search, he was more focused on the song. “This is actually really good,” he muttered, not looking at the redhead considering he had criticized the last few songs she had shown him mainly because they brought up terrible memories he knew she probably wasn’t aware of.

“Didn’t I tell you that you’d like it?”

“Oh shut up,” he muttered as he tugged the second earbud away from her, tucking it in his ear as he stood up, swiping the iPod from the counter and walking off.

“Bucky! Give me my fucking iPod back!”

She never asked about her iPod after that day nor even made an effort to get it back, and they both knew that if she wanted it back (she didn’t) then she’d actually get it back with little to no effort on her part.

Grey eyes shifted across the living room to land on Steve’s bright red face, “Like what you see?” He teased, swiping his tongue across his bottom lip, and he winked at the blond.

“I just… need to…”

A small smile spread across his face as he watched Steve grow increasingly more distracted and it was funny, watching Steve’s eyes trail from his face to… well. “Don’t be all shy, Stevie, I know you wanna kiss my pretty face,” he stated, crossing the room to where the blond was standing, sliding his arms around his waist, and looking up at him, waiting.

“Mmm… would like-ta do a lot more than kiss ya,” was his only response and Bucky grinned as he moved one hand to Steve’s neck, pulling him closer until their lips were almost touching.

“If you’re good, maybe you’ll get more than a kiss,” he muttered as he pressed his lips to Steve’s for a brief second, teasing.

Steve did get more than a kiss that night and yeah, Bucky was proud of himself the next morning when he had a response to fire back to Stark’s “look at that, the winter emo has risen from his coffin,” comment.  
  


“What the hell happened to your hair?”

Bucky glanced up from where he was seated at the kitchen table, reading the newspaper and letting his cheerios go soggy. “What? Don’tcha like it?”

“You dyed your hair silver!”

“How dare you! I dyed it white with blue tips, for your information,” he corrected, a slight smile on his face as he stared up at Steve. “I would have put stripes of red, but the person who colored it said it’d look like shit if I threw in the red, so…”

“Your hair… is… white… why… white.”

He watched Steve fall into shock, “America’s flag is red, white, and blue, you’re Captain America.”

“… that’s the only reason you did it? Your reasons to dye your hair had nothing to do with the fact that the media thinks our relationship is just a big joke?”

“Can a man not dye his hair without an interrogation, Steve? What happened to America being the land of the free and the home of the brave?” He had to bite back his grin as Steve threw his hands up in surrender, muttering a string of “I’m sorry.”

It was a few days after the hair-shock that they were both sitting at the table eating breakfast [a rarity considering they were both bogged down with missions from SHIELD] and Bucky decided now was an opportune time to bring up tattoos.

“You want us… to get… matching tattoos?”

“I just thought it’d be neat. I had an idea, too, where we could get this one where we list the day that we first realized we were…”

“In love,” Steve finished the sentence when he realized what Bucky was going to say, but couldn’t.

A small frown spread across his face as he nodded slowly, “If you really don’t want to–”

“No, let’s do it.”

They actually didn’t get around to planning the tattoo until two months later when they both finally had a weekend off from a mission.

“Do you remember what day you realized you first… uh… loved me?” Bucky flinched at the words, afraid to hear the answer. Afraid–

“March 15, 1945,” he paused before adding, “The day you fell.” There was a long stretch of silence that followed this declaration before Steve spoke again, “What about you?”

That was the question of the day. He knew that he first started thinking of Steve romantically when he was around thirteen or fourteen, but it was innocent enough that he passed it off as platonic because a guy could take his friend to the movies without it being queer.

It wasn’t until around the age of fifteen and sixteen that he started thinking of Steve in a way that was a lot less platonic and a lot more romantic. “Let’s say… July 4th, 1932. I can’t exactly remember a date where I didn’t love you,” the last part was whispered quietly to his lap. How weird would it be to Steve to know that his friend had thought of him in a romantic way since he were fourteen?

“1932… you were fifteen.”

“An estimate,” he whispered, fidgeting with his fingers as he refused to look at Steve, afraid of the look he might get.


End file.
